


When you notice a cat in profound meditation

by Amsel



Series: When you notice a cat.. [1]
Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:21:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amsel/pseuds/Amsel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for a prompt on the Eagle kink meme</p>
<p>Title taken from The Naming of Cats, by TS Eliot.</p>
<p>With apologies to isiscolo for that one continuous spelling mistake ; ). It's been fixed, promise!</p>
    </blockquote>





	When you notice a cat in profound meditation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Eagle kink meme
> 
> Title taken from The Naming of Cats, by TS Eliot.
> 
> With apologies to isiscolo for that one continuous spelling mistake ; ). It's been fixed, promise!

“There's a new Roman Commander,” Crenorix says. 

Esca looks up from where he's tickling a trout in the river. 

“What's he like, then?” With a flick, he grabs the trout and throws it on the riverbank. 

Crenorix gleefully pounces on the fish and quickly breaks its neck. 

“Don't know. We just saw the patrol come in, with the Red Crest out front.”

Esca rolls over, squinting past the warm glare of sunlight at his spear-brother. “Hope he's less of a prick than the old commander,”

Crenorix spits. “Not likely. He's a Roman.”

Esca laughs, rather bitterly. Then jumps up and grabs the fish to gut it and stuff it in his wicker bag with the other three he's already tickled out at other places along the river. “It's getting late. Let's go back.”

Crenorix helps him gather the herd of cattle he's nominally been watching, and they slog back in the evening sunlight, making up insults for the Red Crests as they go.

***

Esca is over at his mother's brother's hut, helping tend horses when he sees the Red Crests and their new commander. 

There's a patrol, which turns out to be Lutorius escorting the new commander to meet the villagers. Uncle Cradoc speaks Latin, and he and the commander talk, and then they laugh and uncle Cradoc calls for Esca to hitch two teams to the chariots. 

The commander and uncle Cradoc will race each other. Esca sneers, but discreetly. 

The soldiers, he sees, are close to wincing. Lutorius, the old stick, looks constipated. 

Esca is looking forward to a shamed commander, and is taken aback when the Red Crest wins. Uncle Cradoc doesn't seem unhappy, though, and calls Esca to bring his hunting spears so the commander may choose one in forfeit. 

The commander smiles at Esca, who is hoping he won't choose the one spear he's hoping to choose for himself, come his manhood ceremony. And what do you know, that's the one the Red Crest chooses. Bastard!

***

A month later it's midsummer, the New Spears are to have their induction, and the Red Crests have invited themselves to the Brigantes party. 

Esca is fuming. It's his day, and his father is entertaining Romans? He's morose as his brothers help him cleanse for the ceremony, and nearly earns a slap when he isn't quick enough to appreciate the (very fine) slim dagger the Roman has presented to him, above the guest gift presented to his parents.

“To mark his manhood,” the Roman smiles, when he hands the gift to Cunoval. “I was told the last of your sons would today be initiated.”

That's how Cradoc translates it for Esca, anyway. Cradoc likes the Roman, it's clear. It is this, the regard of his favourite uncle, that stops Esca refusing the dagger, or even scowling. Much.

The dagger is pretty, Esca has to admit. It’s small, maybe the length of his hand, and quite slim. The handle is what makes it different. He’s never seen anything like it. The handle is an undecorated piece of bronze, ending in a pommel with the face of a tiny wildcat, if a wildcat was this sleek. The moulding is very good. It is a very odd decoration, and unlike anything he’s ever seen before. 

A part of him is pleased, none of his spear brothers have anything like it. But for the most part, Esca is mentally curling his lip. The art of Rome is as dry and lifeless as the fort looks – all edges and reality, without an ounce of the meaning to be found anywhere. A Briton dagger decorated with a cat would have been imbued with the spirit of the wildcat, all flowing lines and movement. This – is just dead, as if somebody had taken the head of a dead kitten and stuck it on a knife-blade. 

Esca mumbles thanks and slips the dagger into his belt. It will do for cleaning his nails, he supposes.

Cradoc squeezes his shoulder, hard, and says something to the commander, which makes his smile twist a little, and give Esca a quick, conspiratory glance, and an encouraging nod. What? 

“What did you tell him, uncle?” he asks, when Mael and Cradoc take him to the hut with the other New Spears. His brother snorts, and his uncle grins.

“I told him you were nervous, since you were scowling and bad mannered, lad.” 

“Nervous?” Esca's voice squeaks up. The shameful thought that the Red Crest believes him to be frightened...

“It was generous of him to bring a gift for you, personally. I had not thought he would remember, when I told him I would be here to see my nephew achieve manhood.”

Doesn't make up for losing out on the spear, Esca thinks.

“Stop sulking, Esca. You cease to be a child today, stop behaving like one.” Mael ruffles his hair.

“Hey!” Esca brushes him off. Mael smiles at him, then they reach the hut, and Esca is thrust inside to wait with the other New Spears. 

The next hours are a whirl, hot, humid, the sound of drums, taste of mead, the chanting of the druids, and pain. By the time he is back to himself with his spear brothers, it has been two days, and he passed a threshold and sports the first band of tattoos around his arm. 

It's only weeks later that Esca is on his first cattle raid against a neighboring tribe. They are very successful, and even better, they manage to escape the notice of the Red Crests. Esca gets another tattoo, and Crenorix helps him train the lovely little mare they stole at the same time. 

Esca decides that once she is trained, he will gift old Whitetail to his sister and ride the new mare for himself. 

Then Cunoval receives a messenger from beyond the Roman wall, a call for help from his foster father's clan, and sends a number of his spears across to help fight against the Picts. 

That's when things go wrong.

***

The smell wakes Esca up. At first he can't see, and there's something cold and heavy on his face, and when he rolls it off, it's sluggish. 

It's Crenorix, only it's not, because his head is missing. Esca vaguely remembers them fighting side by side, and then a blade and Crenorix' head smashing into his face oh Brigid, he was knocked out by his shield brother's head and falling over and pain in the back of his head and then... 

He touches his hand to his head, and jerks away. It hurts. He throws up, then manages to stagger to his feet, disturbing a crow that's sitting on something. Someone. 

Sound comes back, and there's groaning and shouting, and then a Pict materialises in front of him and hits him in the face, and that is when Esca realises that they have lost. And he still lives. 

The shame of it all makes him stay down. 

He comes to a second time in a sacred grove, and his heart sinks with dread. Apparently, he is due to be sacrificed. 

Esca doesn’t think he’s ever been this afraid in his life. He doesn’t want to be a sacrifice, he struggles against ropes he didn’t realise he is tied with. 

His arm scrapes across his back, and catches on something. He tries scrabbling for it. An odd shape, his fingers feel cold, then quickly warming metal, the shape is… the little cat-headed blade the Roman gave him. His captors did not find it. 

He struggles to reach it into his hand, but his flailing has alerted his captors. Somebody hits him in the side of the head. Dazed, Esca falls.

“Brigantes scum!” some body curses him. 

Esca manages to look up, up into the eyes of the man. It is a druid, and his heart squeezes into a hard ball. His eyes travel on. There’s another druid standing not far away. The first grabs him up and propels him along. 

Esca tries to fight but it’s no use. He’s held secure. He screams, but the other druid quickly steps forward, hits him over the face and then stuffs a piece of cloth into his mouth. 

“Try not to shame yourself more than you already have, boy”, the druid says. 

Black spots dance in front of his eyes, and he’s unresisting as he is dragged towards a fire. Now he can hear voices, and then unearthly screams. 

He flinches. _Those screams are not made by a human_. 

He’s right, the shape of a large animal is writhing in pain in the clearing in front of many people. 

It’s a horse. Somewhere behind the fire and the chanting people and the hissing flames and the fear-choked loud beating of his heart is the frightened whinnying of other horses.  
They must be tied up, else they would have surely stampeded by now. 

The druids throw Esca in front of the fire, near the screaming horse. The thrashings are slower now, and slower, the screams seem louder. 

Esca realises dazedly that it’s his own horse, little Whitetail, whose last outing this was to be; he wanted to give the horse to his little sister, he had trained another horse… 

Whitetail’s hooves scrabble in the dirt, foam-flecked muzzle rearing. She manages a last roll over. 

There’s an overpowering stench, which is when Esca realises she’s been gutted alive. 

Blood along her legs indicates she was first ham-stringed. A loop of intestine has caught around one of her hooves, she thrashes again, the loop breaks – Esca throws up in his mouth. He manages to get rid of the gag just in time, spitting the wad of cloth and a stream of bitter bile into the bloody grass. 

Above him there’s chanting and the sound of frenzied drumming. And the other horses are panicking. 

Something warm is thrown in his face, and a knife grazes his neck. He jerks away, hands again scrabbling for the small dagger in the small of his back. 

Several things then happen at once. 

The druids’ chanting reaches a crescendo; the horses whinny even louder, there’s a crack and screams from humans, as suddenly whatever held the horses snaps and they start stampeding in fear. Esca manages to get the fingers of one hand onto the pommel of his knife, and then a sizzling crack of thunder. 

There are more screams, culminating in a high screech, which Esca in a small part of his brain realises is him and there is unbearable pain. 

When he opens his eyes again, he is a cat.

***

The air smells of ozone, and there is part of an oak tree smouldering across the clearing. 

The summer lightning must have struck the Sacred Grove, and Esca does not really want to think about the gods right now. 

They’ve turned him into a cat, after all. 

Stands to reason they aren’t happy. Mind, they are surely unhappier with the Picts than him…. 

He manages to push his way out of his tunic, and licks a quick stripe down his chest and then flank, more to calm himself down and think than because he feels dirty. 

Which he does. 

He’s a long way from home, the members of his hunting party are dead, his horse is dead, and he’s a small cat. 

Tail thrashing, he considers his options. He can walk home. He can stay here. In both cases, he needs to find a way to change back to human. 

Esca lifts his chin and sticks out his tongue. Yech. Smell of sick; that must have been him. The smell of dead Whitetail is much nicer. Appetizing in fact. Esca realises he is ravenously hungry. 

It would seem first order of business is to find something to eat. 

And it possibly shouldn’t be Whitetail. Even though his cat-part is pragmatic about such things, the bit of Esca still able to process human emotion somehow mourns his horse. 

He retreats backward instead, slinking into the underbrush and off toward the heart of the Sacred Grove. His mother always used to bring a pitcher of cream for the sprites of the forest at home in their grove, maybe the women of this tribe do the same. 

They do. There’s an earthenware bowl full of creamy milk. A number of other animals have already been for a taste, sniff, yum, mice, and there are a lot of insects swimming around. A few slugs and snails are eyeing the bowl, too. Esca sets to. 

Belly fed round and tight, he retreats beneath a fir tree and starts a grooming routine. 

There is a lot of distant noise from the humans, but Esca tunes it out. No doubt they are in some elaborate routine to appease the gods. Distantly Esca realises he is getting fatalistic, which does not appear to be a very human trait. Then he mentally shrugs, curls up and has a nap. 

Once he wakes, he starts out for home.

***

Mostly, he travels by night. 

He can see very well, after all, even though he can’t see colour. He’s sleepy during the day. 

Three times he’s come across small farmsteads where he has helped himself to the cream the women leave on the doorstep. 

In return, he hunts a few rats in the barns and leaves them in payment in front of the entry. He eats the mice. The rats are usually stringy. They also fight rather hard, one bit him on the nose.

Then the blustery weather changes and the rain starts coming down, and the journey, which up to now was bearable, becomes a nightmare. 

His fur sticks to his skin, he is frequently cold, and the mice won’t show in this weather. 

Terribly hungry, he scrambles up a brackeny hill, and finds the Wall across the next one. 

Not far off, there’s one of those stumpy unlovely forts. And behind that, there’s a Briton village. Esca sets off at a dash. 

The first thing he does, once he reaches the village, is find a bowl of milk. With incautious abandon, he laps up mouthful after mouthful. And then he crawls under the eaves of the large hut he found the bowl of milk in front of and falls asleep. 

Waking up next day, Esca sets out exploring. He feels like his heart will burst with happiness, when he realises he is in uncle Cradoc’s village. 

He flits through the village towards his uncle’s hut, but uncle Cradoc is not there. There’s just aunt Guinhumara in front of her loom. Still, he comes up to her and gives her a friendly rub with his head, then does the same to his baby cousin. Guinhumara lets out a startled yelp. Esca jumps back. 

“A wildcat?” she asks. “What are you doing here, cat?”

I’m hungry, Esca says, but she doesn’t appear to hear him. She puts out a hand, but the motion is fast, and Esca never realised she was so big. Her hand is massive, and coming for his head. He rears back quickly. Guinhumara drops her hand, much to his relief. 

“Would you like a drink of milk?” she asks. 

Has she understood after all?  
 _Yes_ , Esca cries. _Please, aunt Guinhumara. And some meat stew?_

She gets up from her loom and moves toward her supply store, removing a wooden slat from above her dug-in supply jars. She pulls out a wooden jug and reaches for a little wooden bowl, which she fills, then places near the hearth. 

Esca swoops down again for a drink. This time, he only finishes half, before curling up on uncle Cradoc’s sheepskin covered seat by the fire. Warm and comfortable, he falls asleep, to the chuckling of his aunt.

He wakes up to voices. The hut is empty; from the entryway, patches of sunlight make patterns on the floor. He can just see the back of Guinhumara’s legs. He goes to investigate, brushing past Guinhumara to stand in front of her. His nose twitches with disdain. It’s the Roman commander, along with a number of his men.

“My man will not be back for some days. Until then, the Roman Commander will not be able to drive a chariot,” Guinhumara says, sounding stilted. Esca realises she is speaking Latin.

“A shame. Although I did not come for racing,” The Red Crest says. “There have been reports of a cattle raid.”

“Maybe so. But my man did not go on a cattle raid. He has gone to visit his sister’s man.”

“And it is the Brigantes who are said to have raided cattle, and come to grief,” the Red Crest says implacably.

“My man has no need to raid cattle,” Guinhumara says again, expressionlessly.

The Roman sighs, then nods. Guinhumara turns around and goes into her home, dropping the curtain behind her.

“No use, sir,” one of the Romans says. “She will not talk.”

“No. But we do need to keep the peace along the border, and the Brigantes attacking the Picts over a cattle raiding party is what we are here to stop,” the man answers.

Esca hisses a bit, and the Roman looks down.

“Oh, hello. Where did you come from?”

Before Esca can spit at him, he’s been scooped up by a large hand and cradled to the man’s chest. 

Esca splutters in outrage, but the Roman doesn’t seem to care, and smoothes the other hand over his back, finishing off with a firm stroke over his tail, then does it again. Which – is really nice. 

“I didn’t know they had cats here!” The commander sounds delighted. 

“They don’t. There’s wild cats, but they are very shy. And that one is the wrong colour,” the other centurion stares at Esca intently. “Have you ever seen a cat with blue eyes, sir? And his fur is the most extraordinary orange colour.”

“Maybe it was a gift to the chieftain from a trader,” the commander muses, extending a long finger and tickling under his chin, ruffling the sides of his mouth, then gently stroking down his throat. 

The feeling is delicious. 

“Maybe, sir.” The other man approaches, and reverently strokes over Esca’s head. 

Which is heavenly… Stop. They are the enemy! Esca puts a paw against the Roman’s chest and heaves away. The commander laughs.

“Enough already? There you go, cat,” he says, placing Esca carefully on the ground. 

Esca gives an offended shake, then quickly walks off down toward the chieftains hut. Maybe he can find the druid. Behind him, the Roman patrol gets under way again, and moves off.

The village is nearly silent in the midday sun. Most people seem to be out cutting hay. He sees the metalworker at the bellows. A few children are playing a game near the lazy river, involving a lot of splashing and laughing. And then he meets the boys with the dogs…

It never occurred to him to be frightened of the dogs. But they see him, and set up chase, and before he knows it, he’s been treed, with a bunch of howling dogs and laughing boys underneath. He clambers higher, balances out on a limb and manages to jump onto the roof of a hut, very offended in his dignity. 

Some of the boys give chase, then one of them gets out his sling. A flying stone hits Esca in the ribs just as he jumps to the ground, next minute, a bunch of boys have grabbed him. 

One of them grabs his tail, swings him cruelly around and lets fly. Esca screams loudly, flying through the air, dizzy and out of air, his ribs hurting, trying to turn himself around and brace for impact, when he smacks into something.

“What do you think you are doing?” somebody yells angrily.

The boys stop yelling immediately. Esca manages to sort himself out. He’s been caught by a man, he’s being held in two large warm hands, cradled against a warm wool cloak. 

He’s been caught by the Red Crest commander. 

Suddenly, women appear in doorways. The metalsmith lays down his hammer, and comes over.

“Who does the cat belong to?” The Roman snaps.

There is a murmur, then the metalsmith draws himself up.

“Tis likely a wild one the boys caught, commander,” he says, civilly enough.

“I doubt it’s wild. It is too small, and it has blue eyes,” the Roman says, clipped.

“There is no cat in this village,” the chieftain’s wife says. She makes an aborted movement toward Esca. “Although we would welcome it.”

One of the Romans mutters something involving the name of Bastet. 

“More like make dogmeat out of it,” the commander says. “I shall take it with me.”

With that he shifts Esca around into one hand, draws his cloak off and bundles Esca into it. Esca realises he is still whimpering when the man carefully places the bundle in front of his saddle before vaulting up onto his horse. 

The Romans leave, and Esca is carried out of his uncle’s village, away from the druid who might help him, on the back of a Roman horse. 

***

For the next few days, he does little but sleep. The commander has put him into a large basket lined with scraps of wool, next to his bed. There’s a bowl of water next to him, as well as thin gruel with bits of meat floating in it. 

Esca is not really hungry in the beginning. 

The first evening, the Roman had put him on the table and drawn his hands all over him. Esca had hissed and whimpered by turns, as the Roman found every bruise and hurt. His ribs were then bound up with a piece of linen. Breathing hurts. Moving hurts. The cloth is itchy, he feels disgusting and hasn’t been able to clean himself for days. 

In a word, Esca is miserable. 

That first day, he wasn’t even able to bend his neck to the gruel in the bowl. The Roman fed him by letting him lick gruel off his fingertips.

Once his ribs feel better, he scratches at the cloth until it comes off, when the Roman has gone off to do something or other outside. Then he carefully checks out the room. It’s odd, there are corners, and Esca wonders how anybody could feel comfortable with shadows collecting there. There is lots of light, from a square opening in the wall. The floors are made of stone, and very clean. 

And the space is astounding. 

The Roman lives and works in two rooms the size of the living hut for a large family. Alone. He sleeps on a raised platform, under a linen sheet draped over with what looks like a lovely warm fur blanket. Esca sniffs at it, carefully rears up, and manages to jump on the bed with only a small scrabble for purchase and twinge of ribs. 

The fur is every bit as warm as he thought, even if it smells of the Red Crest. He sets to washing himself, for the first time in what feels like weeks, and then stretches leisurely, investigates the folded blanket at the head of the bed, rejects it for the folded fur at the end of the bed, jumps around the delightful slithery fur a bit, and then, when it has bunched into little dips and valleys, crawls into a nice tunnel and falls asleep.

There is a laugh above him. Esca opens one eye, rather irritated, because the temperature has gone down significantly. The Roman is above him, one hand fisted around the fur, having lifted it off Esca.

“You must be feeling better. My rooms look like the sons of Boreas went through them, you have removed the bandage and left it lying and you are sleeping in my bed.”

Esca blinks up at him, rather at a loss. The Roman’s hand comes down and strokes his head and scratches his chin. 

Esca closes his eyes and angles his head to get the fingers scratching just right. The Roman sits down next to him, places his helmet onto the folded blanket and starts stroking down Esca’s chin all the way down his throat to his chest, then repeats. Esca starts purring. Stops in surprise, eyes opening wide. Did he just purr for the Red Crest? 

“If you are feeling better, perhaps introductions are in order. I’m Marcus. I command this fort, here. And up to now, no-one has come to claim you back, so I’m going to keep you.”

Esca snorts.

“With your permission, of course.” Marcus gives a little laugh. “Well, sir cat, you need a name. I can’t keep on calling you cat. How about Glaucullus? It would fit your eyes.”

Esca turns his head and stares, offended. _What’s wrong with Esca?_

“Glaucullus.” Marcus’ voice has gone soft and tender. “It fits you, little one.” Esca sniffs again, but doesn’t object when Marcus’ other hand starts stroking along his back. After some time, Esca starts purring again, flopping down on the fur. When Marcus gets up to leave, he crawls into the warm space left and falls back asleep.

Later, he is woken by a young soldier with a broom, who creates a lot of dust while sweeping the floor, then fills all the lamps from an oil jar. He stacks the brazier with bits of wood, pours some water into Esca’s bowl and then comes over, sits on the bed and strokes Esca for at least ten minutes. Esca thoroughly enjoys the attention. He’s less enthused when a horn signal can be heard, and the soldier jumps up, disturbing Esca out of his bliss, grabs broom, oil jar and water bag and rushes out, cursing. 

There’s a lot of yelling. Esca jumps off the bed and goes to investigate. The young soldier is being shouted at by one of the sour-faced centurions. Galba, Esca thinks. Esca wonders where he sleeps, and if he could piss on his bed. He’s got the urge, anyway. 

He stares intently. 

The young soldier, after being shouted at sufficiently, scrambles off, and leaves Galba to look after him. Esca continues to stare. Galba looks down for the first time. His lips curl in a sneer. 

“Bloody cat. Shoo!”

Esca is affronted, and resolves to find Galba’s bed at the first opportunity. Galba’s mouth works, then he curses, makes a sign and walks off. 

Esca surveys the Roman fort. He’s never been here as a boy. It’s very strange. There are lots of buildings. Carefully, since his ribs are still a little tender, he jumps down the steps and sets out to investigate the nearest buildings. 

He also finds an acceptable place out of anybody’s eyesight to attend to some urgent business. 

Then investigates the fort properly, meeting the cooks, checking out the officers mess, being stroked by various soldiers and lastly finding Galba’s sleeping cell. 

Unfortunately the door is closed. He’ll have to come back. 

It’s getting late again, and he finds an unwary mouse for dinner, then walks around the place some more. The officers’ mess is full of people now. Warily, he stops. Something creaks behind him, then a hand comes down and picks him up. He’s hoisted to face-height and stares at Lutorius, who smiles at him and gently pets his head.

“What are you doing here? Come to steal honest soldiers’ food?”

_Let go of me, you sour-faced old man!_ Esca says furiously. 

Of course, the man doesn’t understand him.

“Tell me you don’t have that flea-ridden bit of vermin with you, Lutorius,” Galba snorts from his place at the table.

“He has no fleas. Stop cursing the cat, it’s unlucky,” Lutorius answers calmly, placing Esca back on the ground and going to wash his hands in a bowl of water.

“Wherever did that mangy thing come from, anyway?” Galba asks.

“I don’t know. The chieftain down there never received such an animal as a present.”

Esca jumps up on a convenient chair that is placed at the head of the table and places his front paws on the table top. Centurion Brutus muffles a laugh. 

“He looks like he’s going to address us in a minute.”

But it’s the youngest centurion who looks most uncomfortable. He even gets up and places a bit of lentil stew in front of Esca, balanced on a piece of Roman bread.

“What are you doing, Philadelphus?” Brutus asks.

“If he is hungry, we should feed him,” the young man says.

Lutorius snorts. “I saw him gobble a mouse not so long ago, once he’d finished chasing the chickens. He’s probably not hungry.”

_I liked chasing the hens._

“Nevertheless, we should not draw Bastet’s ire on us,” Philadelphus answers back, before returning to his seat.

Esca jumps on the table and crouches over the piece of bread, licks once, twice, yes, that will go down well. 

Galba curses, Lutorius laughs, then they seem to sit straighter and the easy banter dies down. Esca doesn’t really notice, just hears splashing water. A shadow appears over him and Marcus lifts him off the table to the floor, then reaches his bit of stew after him.

“Off the table Glaucullus,” he says firmly.

Esca huffs, eats up the last mouthful of stew, licks at the bread a few times and then waits. In his father’s hut, everybody would toss bits of food to the dogs. But nothing comes sailing down. 

Esca pulls up to Marcus and puts a paw on his leg. The skin twitches, but no stew appears. Esca looks up, measures the height of the table top from his place down here, then decides to not risk it with his ribs. He pads over to the young centurion, and places a paw on his leg instead. The man gives a surreptitious look down, a minute later another piece of bread bearing stew is set in front of him. Esca gives a loud meow in thanks and sets to again. 

“Are you feeding the cat again, Philadelphus?” Galba’s voice floats over.

“It is bad luck not to,” Philadelphus mutters back.

“Don’t feed him too much, he can keep the rats down in the grain store,” Marcus calls over from his discussion about something or other with Lutorius.

Work for a Roman? No thanks, Esca thinks. He could have said it aloud, but he supposes they wouldn’t understand anyway. 

They have their first disagreement that very evening. 

Esca sees no reason why he should not stay in the bed, on the fur. Marcus wants the bed to himself. Marcus had sat at the desk, scratching something on bits of wood that smelled of bees wax. Meanwhile, Esca had curled up on the fur. 

But now Marcus is moving around, taking off his armour and hanging it on the wooden tree standing next to the sleeping platform. He slips out of the red woollen tunic, folding it on the chest, then grabs Esca and places him into the basket. 

Esca squeaks in indignation. By the time he’s staggered up again, Marcus is laying full length on the wooden platform, the fur pulled over him, head on the blanket. His breathing is already deepening into sleep. 

Esca pads over and jumps on the bed, walks up and sits on Marcus’ face. Then rolls off down his chest when Marcus sits up abruptly, spluttering.

“Glaucullus! Sleep in your basket!” Marcus hisses, catching Esca around the middle and depositing him back on the floor. 

_No! The fur is warm. You sleep in the basket!_

With that, Esca jumps back on the bed. Marcus pushes him back out. Esca jumps up again. Marcus deposits him on the floor again. 

“Come on, Glaucullus! I have to sleep. I have watch in four hours,” Marcus pleads, setting Esca into the basket in a very pointed way. He returns to the fur. 

Esca waits, until the breathing from the sleeping platform has evened, then pads over again. This time, he jumps to the foot end and stealthily creeps up to Marcus’ head. Marcus’ arm comes out and sweeps Esca down. Shocked, Esca lands badly and can’t help a pained cry as a shock goes through his ribs. Whimpering, he limps under the sleeping platform. 

It creaks above him.

“Glaucullus? Did I hurt you?”

Marcus’ feet appear, then he is crouching down, peering in the gloom of the room. “I’m sorry. Here, let me look.” 

His hand is extended to Esca. Esca tries to go backward, away from the large thing coming toward him, but is hampered by the wall. Marcus’ hand closes around him. 

“Shh. Let me look.”

Marcus cradles him against his chest, running a warm hand over him. He sits on the platform, with Esca a miserable bundle on his lap. Then he sighs. 

“Very well. But just tonight, because you are hurt.”

With that, he lies full length again, depositing Esca on the folded blanket, then draws up the fur over his prone body. Esca creeps down to where neck meets shoulder, curls up and goes to sleep. He vaguely remembers a hand gently scratching his fur.

The next night, he curls up on the blanket before Marcus gets into bed. This time, the Roman just sighs before pulling the fur over both of them.

***

Esca is starting to like the Romans. 

He can get away with almost anything as long as he catches a few rats around the fort. He can sleep on the fur, be stroked by the young soldier who cleans Marcus’ rooms, cadge food off Philadelphus, share watch with the soldiers standing around on the fence and get stroked there, and be carried by Lutorius. 

He also has a running battle with Galba. The man was only incautious enough to leave the door to his sleeping cell open once, but Esca usually manages to leave the gall bladder of a dead rat in front of the door most nights. 

Soldiers on watch open doors for him when he scratches, and he’s got free access to the soldiers’ quarters, although he finds them rather cramped. He especially likes his other friend, the young soldier who cleans the office, and tends to curl up on Lucius Secundus’ bed for a midday nap. 

He also appreciates the fact that the young soldier always strokes him when he has finished cleaning Marcus’ rooms, and sometimes when he hasn’t. He’s already brought him a bird in appreciation. 

He gets fed choice bits of meat, and Marcus has taken to buying a bit of cream off the village whenever he passes that way. Esca’s life revolves around sleeping, catching rats, chasing chickens, hassling Galba and getting petted.

Things could have gone on that way, he supposes, if Marcus hadn’t taken him out on horseback.

Marcus is getting ready for patrol. He’s been twitchy ever since a messenger came by, bringing letters and some sort of communication. Esca had been lying on the desk, trying to see how much of his body he could roll over the parchment and the wooden tablets covered in wax before Marcus pushed him back, batting lazily at the stylus and purring loudly, when Lutorius brought the messenger in. 

Esca wasn’t tracking human speech very well anymore, and had tuned out whatever the men had been saying to each other, since Marcus had stopped using his left hand to stroke him idly while writing with his right. 

Instead, Esca had been engaged in alternatively licking his face clean and digging his claws rhythmically into the soft wax under his paws, luxuriating in the stretch. 

Marcus has been slightly tense ever since. Nothing Esca can do will get him to relax completely. Esca has even taken to sleep on Marcus’ chest, purring all the while, but it doesn’t seem to help. 

Frankly, it’s getting annoying. 

Esca decides to ride with Marcus on a whim. He’s been getting rides from various soldiers, usually when they are on exercises, and can balance on the high saddles rather well. So when Marcus orders a patrol, Esca follows the stable boy, clambers up his leg, ignoring the outraged screams from the young soldier, and jumps onto the saddle. 

The soldier glares at him, but doesn’t move to take him down. Marcus also glares when the horse is brought to him, and the other soldiers titter. 

Marcus jumps on, and before he can catch Esca to hand him down, Esca clambers up his wool cloak and snuggles into the folds of cloak between shoulder and neck, purring. It does its usual trick. 

With a bitten-off Mithras! Marcus leaves him, spurring his horse forward and out of the fort. After a while, he reaches up and places Esca back down onto his lap and the saddle bow. 

Esca is enjoying the ride, until he realises they are making for the Briton village. He then realises he hasn’t given much thought to turning back into a human, or that he needs to find a druid to do it for him. 

In fact, and Esca’s human side rises to the surface all at once, he has no idea how long he has been a cat and living with the Romans. 

It can’t be that long can it? It was summer when he got turned into a cat, it’s still summer now? 

Agitated, he looks around. They are at the village. And Marcus is making for uncle Cradoc’s hut. There is aunt Guinhumara, with a little child clinging to her legs. Where’s the baby cousin? And uncle Cradoc, since when does he have a scar across his cheek? 

“Have you come for a race, commander?” Cradoc calls. 

Esca struggles to get down as soon as Marcus reins in the horse. 

“No, Cradoc, not today, much as I would like to. I have business with the chieftain, and came to leave my horse in your care.”

He jumps out of the saddle, Esca held in one arm. Esca struggles out of his grip and jumps to the ground.

“And the little wild cat?” Cradoc asks with a smile, when Esca desperately rubs his head on his legs.

Marcus sighs, then nods, smiles at Cradoc and, after bending down to pat Esca quickly on the head, moves away, a number of his escort following him. The last two take care of the horses. 

Esca brushes around Cradoc’s ankles, making his uncle nearly stumble. 

Cradoc gently pushes Esca away and rejoins Guinhumara.

“An odd creature,” he says to her, nodding at him.

“He was here the summer past, when the commander took him,” she answers. 

Esca stops, stunned. A whole year? He spent a whole year with Marcus in the fort? He follows Cradoc along, trying to get his attention. 

“The druid has been to my sister’s village,” Cradoc is saying to Guinhumara in a low voice. “Cunoval is thinking of joining the host.”

“What will we do?” Guinhumara breathes.

“Wait,” Cradoc answers. 

Guinhumara swings the child to her hip. “You brought me a swan for the pot, Cradoc my husband. I will save the feathers for a collar for your spear,” she says firmly.

Cradoc shivers, then nods. 

Esca runs after them, frantic. He butts into Cradoc’s ankles. 

“The animal is following us,” Cradoc says.

“He might be hungry. I gave him milk when he came the first time,” Guinhumara says.

The cousin giggles. Esca realises he is old enough to have been given a name, and he missed the ceremony.

But then Lucius Secundus turns up, and with a civil nod to Cradoc, picks up Esca.

“Come on, Glaucullus. The commander will be worried if you go missing” he says. 

Esca squirms a bit, but Lucius Secundus has a good grip on him. And once they are back with the horses, Marcus is on his way back too, with the big wavy helmet and a stern expression. Next minute, Esca is being carried back out of the village, back to the Roman fort. 

Esca’s fur prickles and crackles with electricity, promising a summer storm.

***

Things are tense in the fort, too. 

The centurions, though getting used to Marcus, never really warmed to him. Galba especially doesn’t like him, and often when they are in the mess, playing dice, Marcus can be found in his rooms, kneeling in front of his altar burning incense to Mithras, which makes Esca sneeze and find another room to sleep in. 

But this week is especially tense. Marcus is sending out a patrol because some supply train hasn’t reached them. Esca has a feeling the train will never come. Not if the clan is on the war path. 

But Marcus sends out the patrol, and Brutus with it, and Esca can feel the pressure bearing down. He’s too tense to sleep, pacing around, watching Marcus lying full-length under the fur, then abruptly decides to go. 

He walks out and joins the guards on the parapet, too tense to enjoy their attentions. In the end, he moves off to sit on a post near the tower, staring out at the dark night. He can hear rustling, and knows it is people. The Romans seem unaware. 

Suddenly, Marcus is there, too. He smiles, pauses and gives Esca a pat, but Esca twitches away and goes on staring.

“Yes, me too,” Marcus says softly, then moves down to meet Lutorius who is looking sleep-rumpled and trying hard to be civil. 

Next there is a lot of suppressed noise, and soldiers start appearing, walking almost quietly. 

Esca wonders whether the approaching Britons can hear them, and whether there is a way to warn them. They wait longer. And then things are chaotic and confused, there is fire and screams. 

Esca runs, gets trampled, leaves bloody streaks on somebody’s leg and fetches up under the grain store. There he waits until morning.

***

It’s cheerless. 

Men are standing and sitting everywhere, the sick block is full of wounded screaming or groaning, a smoky smelly signal fire has been lit, and Marcus is striding around covered in dirt, soot and blood. 

Esca carefully comes out to join him. When the soldiers see him, they invariably touch him. 

Marcus goes so far as to pick him up and bury his head in his fur, just breathing him in, before releasing him, for which Esca is grateful. Marcus smells, quite frankly. 

But he does follow him, hoping maybe there will be some meat and some cream soon, but they walk up to the square, where Marcus crouches next to a body. Esca is too far behind to hear what he has to say, but he recognises the body only too well. 

It’s Lucius Secundus, and there will be no more petting and back scratches from him ever again. 

The air has gone close and charged again, Esca doesn’t know what to think. Lucius Secundus was his friend, and the people who attacked the Romans were his people. 

He doesn’t know who to cry for any more. 

When Marcus goes haring off up to the palisade, he runs after him. 

Far away, down the dirt road, is the village, and there is the druid Esca has been hoping and then forgetting to find. There also is the patrol. 

Esca watches, then watches Marcus charging out of the fort at the head of his men. 

The air is getting closer every minute, his fur is emitting sparks. 

With a sudden decision, he rushes down, finds the little opening that allows him to pass through the gates, crosses the ditch.

“Glaucullus!” somebody shouts.

He sets out at a run for the snarl of fighting bodies, sees the chariots racing towards the Roman soldiers, sees them break and run, recognises the charioteer driving the druid. He is flying towards them, and he doesn’t know who he is running towards – Marcus or Cradoc. 

Marcus picks up a spear, runs towards the racing chariots. Esca is through the fleeing soldiers, then the spear leaves Marcus’ hand and flies into Cradoc. There is a scream, the chariot overturns, the druid is flung out. The chariot overturns in mid-air and comes flying onto Marcus, burying him underneath. 

Then there is a moment of awful stillness. 

The bugle call from the fort can be heard. Esca skids to a halt, coming up to Marcus’ prone body. Marcus opens his eyes, then smiles a little.

“Glaucullus!” he rasps. Esca mewls and comes closer, pressing his nose into his cheek where it meets the curve of his helmet. Marcus closes his eyes again, then is still. 

Heart beating wildly, Esca dashes around the wreck of the chariot and fetches up to the body of the druid. His grey hair is matting with blood, but his eyes are open and tracking, and when they alight on Esca, they go wide in surprise. 

“Are you sent by the gods, shapeshifter?” he asks

_No._ Esca answers. _I got turned into this cat after I was caught by the Picts on a cattle raid. Can I turn back?_

The druid smiles a little bitterly. “I thought I knew the will of the gods, and that they would grant victory, since I knew a shapeshifter was here. Where have you been?”

_The Red Crest commander took me in after the boys of the village chased and hurt me._ Esca answers. 

The druid sighs. “On such small things is the goodwill of the gods lost. Had they treated the messenger right -” His eyes turn up in his head, and he dies.

Esca screams, pounces on a bloody sword, there is a lightning flash.

When he comes to, he is lying naked on the ground next to the druid, clutching a bloody sword in one hand and  
a little dagger in the other. 

It’s how the Romans find him.

***

A relief force of Roman soldiers has turned up to the fort, with it a new commander. 

Esca has been taken prisoner on the battle-field, and is now chained to a post, still naked, in the square. 

The new Roman soldiers are meting out punishment to the village and beyond. Esca cries hot tears when he sees the smoke rising above the walls in the direction of the village. 

From his vantage point, he can watch the soldiers at work. There are a number of wounded. The chickens he used to chase have been stuck into their cages and stacked to make room for the walking wounded, and the seriously wounded are in the sick block. 

Drunk old Aulus who used to sneak Esca fresh eggs is up to his elbows in blood. 

There’s no sign of Marcus, but plenty of rumour. The soldiers adore Marcus now. Esca could spit. 

Ludicrously, Lutorius and Galba are out on the battle ground, searching. They are looking for a small orange cat with blue eyes, and half the off-duty soldiers are out with them. 

Esca never realised they cared so much for him. 

Galba especially seems upset, he seems to miss the early-morning rat guts. 

Philadelphus, when not nursing the cut in his arm, is praying to a strange goddess named Bastet and leaving bowls of cream everywhere. 

It would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic. 

Esca has plenty of time to reflect his treatment as a cat as opposed to his treatment as a human chained to the post, slowly joined by more tribesmen and women. He is given wary looks, but no-one seems to recognise him.

Finally they are all locked into a dark shed, and then a little fat man comes along, looks them over and then they are taken out one at a time, a piece of their ear cut off, and they are chained together at the neck. 

This is how Esca leaves the Roman fort for the last time. They set off down the road. Esca is near the end of the line. He turns around, once. There’s a patrol of soldiers, moving slowly to keep pace with a mule cart. 

Apparently, the most grievous wounded are being taken away. He turns back when the chain tightens around his neck, making him stumble and the next in line curse him.

From proud chieftain’s son to cat to slave. This is what Esca’s life is now.

***

Months later, after conspicuously failing in every task given to a recalcitrant slave, Esca finds himself with a shield and sword in a sandy arena. He is ready to die, in the only honourable way left to him. 

But the gods are really laughing at him. There, on his back in the sand, accepting the shouts to kill him and send him home, comes another voice.

“Let him live!”

He’d know that voice anywhere. He looks up at the audience, and meets Marcus’ eyes.


End file.
